Everything Right
by Chair on Fire
Summary: Possible continuation following about one to two years post-game. A brief encounter between prophet and Envoy, with all the snark you would expect, and maybe just a touch more respect. One-shot. Con-crit appreciated!


Things had gone back to too-close-to-normal for a rotten spell. He wandered, he painted, he ranted and got distracted by melons or otherwise pretty things. Fall passed into winters into spring into summer and fall again. Two years of too-close-to-normal, and he'd never returned to Ponc'tan for begrudging the quiet.

He tosses a wild, untamed grin to the sky sometimes. Doin' my part, furball, you jus' keep doin' yours, kay… Winter came once and he would murmur unthinkingly against red white and black shaping canvas, ya fallin' asleep on me again? Get on up an' get goin', I'm too handsome for the goddamn rain… Spring came and more often canvas got laid upon open grass under a golden light still blinking awake from a darksleep. Paint strokes would fly with some carelessness of line, wildness echoing the flash in dark eyes and jade aura. All usual. Too-close-to-normal.

At least until _that_ laugh.

Two eternal years of too-close-to-normal halt straight in their tracks with the sound. He freezes in mid-crouch to the next hop, a part of him already twitching inside, and the green glow surrounding him already threatens to flicker red sparks. He turns only his head at first, shooting a harsh glare to pale features under eagle-helm.

"_Bonjour_, little friend!"

He bristles. Considers a snarky remark before he catches the smile on that face. Remembers the fall down to icy water and the _words_. His jaw snaps shut. Long moments pass into wordlessness before a fair, delicate eyebrow raises high into forehead.

"Cat got your tongue, little painter?"

"Whaddya want, ya halfbake?" He barks, aura tinged a dangerous red and gaze challenging the prophet. His hand finds the hilt of Denkoumaru in some simple assurance that, if the idiot starts wasting his time, he can give the pretty boy a taste of his sword.

That smile perseveres, though.

"Impertinent as ever, of course. No, shouldn't have suspected you would lose the snark to you, not even after — however many years it must be, now..." The slightest incline of the prophet's head cautions him slightly, a floating step forward from the larger figure only has the artist tightening his grip on his sword. He glares up with dark eyes before a small, manic little grin of his own begins to play.

"Heheheh… oh man, ya better quit wastin' your breath and tell me what the heck you're here for, pretty boy, or else this time I'll make damn _sure_ ya get your partin' gift—"

"Why, I'm here for _you_, of course!"

This time, the moment's silence held the air for a completely different reason.

"…What?!"

The artist gave a bounce to that, arms flailing to the point where he nearly knocks his helmet off his head. The red fades to jade, again, but the crackling sparks remain.

"Just what I said, little bouncing friend." Said the prophet, albeit impatiently. He tapped his flute against his shoulder, looking serious as he concluded, "I'm here for you, to take you away."

The artist balked before shaking his head, rapidly. "Ohno… nuh-uh, ya got it all wrong prophetbutt." His arms folded defiantly over his chest. "Unlike you with your… sparkle-glitter floaty act thing with the flute and half-baked predictions and whatever, I've actually got a _job_ t'do. And I'm not about stop just t'go on some little fun ride with ya."

He's almost surprised when lighter brows furrow and that head shakes, letting the long silk of that helm sway with the movement.

"That's _exactly_ it, little friend, and exactly why I'm here to take you."

"…ya lost me." The Poncle declares in a tone that could almost be cautious.

Flute taps against shoulder, again. A sigh. "Do you remember what I told you that time ago before Amaterasu boarded the great Ark of Yamato and left for the realm of the Celestials?"

He remembers. He'd done everything he could to forget it. The silence lingers and lighter-colored eyes blink.

"…perseverance. _Resolve_. Outcome is secondary—"

"I _know_." He growls, hand balling into a fist at the memory.

The prophet watches him a moment, then adds in an odd tone that the artist can't remember hearing before, "Then you should know why I am here, Issun. Only those worthy can make the trip to the heavens."

Another pause fills the air between them. Artist eyes narrow, scrutinizing any suspicion of a lie that may linger in the prophet's features. He can never tell with this damn idiot.

…except, then, something glitters in lighter eyes that isn't the usual sparkle show. The artist can't help but blink – many times – as the set to pale features seems to soften around the smile. The prophet actually giggles, softly.

"Are you ready to make your journey, Envoy?"

The Poncle finds himself caught a moment by the way that grin pulls, and can't help but gape at the sudden, clear honesty there.

Goddamn pretty things.

When he finally does shake himself – c'mon, don't let the halfbake distract ya now, probably doin' it on purpose to mess with ya anyway – he finds the smile still there and the question lingering like yellow hues in the air. He glares through his bangs as they get ruffled in the laze of late spring breeze, daring the prophet to – something. It doesn't particularly matter what.

That lighter gaze holds his own. Doesn't stop smiling.

The smile quirks slowly in an untamed, triumphant sort of grin as the artist gradually nods.

"Oh, you _bet_ I'm ready."

. . .

_The rush of wind should be enough to knock the air from your chest and your soul to the sky. Pale hands tap accordingly at characters, symbols, old dead languages brought to life by the green glow of mechanisms. Fingers only pause when the rush of air past his skin slows to a gentle, frequent play of whispering breeze in his bangs. _

_The wild, victorious shout to the heavens catches his attention, though._

_Lighter-toned eyes raise to the mast of the Ark where, if he shades his eyes just right, he can see the form of jade glow shouting joy from his lungs and tossing soul to the sky above._

_And, slowly, those pale hands rise to press the helm from his line of sight. Bangs fall loose, tickle his cheeks, and the prophet can't help but smile. _

_It's all right. Finally… finally, it is all right._


End file.
